Red Petals Snow School Version
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: I just wrote this for school. It's the story, retold in three different points of veiw. I thought it was interesting, so here it is. First pov is Harry. third is Snape. second is some random chick. And yes, my teacher was worried about me.
1. Harry

_Red Petals Snow_

It was so pretty, really. So surreal. Something that attractive surely was too beautiful for the mortal world, and yet, here it was. He watched with a small smile as the red spread through the white powder, blood forging twirling paths through the snow. The red cut and flowed, creating a perfect, complex pattern that made the experience seem more of an illusion than it already did.

He wanted to move his arm out of the way, for fear of mussing the sublime design with his all too human flesh, but held still. Somehow, he knew, to keep the red going, he had to keep his wrists in the snow. He looked to his right, and saw with satisfaction that his right wrist did just as well as the left. The red spread over the snow, never blurring, always remaining a perfect red, crisscrossing lines through the purest white, like tiny veins over porcelain skin.

The tree he leaned against did nothing to mar the effect; on the contrary it seemed to make it all the more beautiful. He looked from the red veins over across the white expanses of the pure, still world, blissfully happy that there was nothing and no one to be seen, but for the snow, the white sky, and the tree at his back. It seemed to stretch forever.

The pain from his wrists felt as nothing; there was only the bright red and the pure white. He could not remember what his life was like, or why he had cut so deep as to shed so much blood. The only thing that he could remember that connected to it was his…something. Friend, maybe, lover. He struggled for minutes until he remembered the face, the voice of him, and he was utterly consumed once again with emotional pain that seemed to rip his already torn self. After years of this agony, he was able to repress it again, and to analyze it from a secure distance in his mind.

He remembered pain, longing, and sadness, tears wept and blood spilt, but not why, not how, and nor did it seem important anymore.

He returned to admiring the thin red lines over the brilliantly white snow, which was soft, in its way. It was so _red,_ and so _white_, he could not draw his stare away. At least, whatever the reason, whatever the cause, he would be peaceful with his red veins as company. He need not fear that.

His whole body was numb now, from lying in the snow, and he dared not move an inch, for fear of wrecking the pattern. He did not mind, though; something like that was too beautiful to give up for a little comfort.

He shifted ever so slightly, and a red line through the white broke to pieces. In that bit of a moment, his whole body screamed with pain as he agonized over the loss of something so beautiful. It was as if _his_ vein, _his_ blood, had shattered and broken, and he was now left with the pieces, pieces under his skin, pricking at the surface. He could not breathe, he could not think, as he was consumed in agony.

In the last moments before the dark wiped out the pure white snow—which held mostly perfect, though one broken, shattered, vein—he wondered if the pain that had caused him to bleed, to make himself bleed, had felt the same as when the red vein had broke. He knew that both pains were for losing something beautiful, if only he knew that much.


	2. Girl

She had been walking through the park, which was, by now, covered up to a person's knee in snow, when she saw it.

The park was a poor name for what this really way; a large expanse of grass with a great willow tree planted in the middle, paths strewn here and there for the lonely stroller, or lovesick couple. No benches, no picnic tables, nothing else. In the dead of winter, in the deepest of snow, all that could be seen was the willow tree in a large plain of white, and it was beautiful in its solitude, she had thought.

She had been quickly making her way to the willow, the idea of sitting under its branches, as she had when she was small, an appealing one at the moment. Almost there, she had realized that there was already someone leaning their back to the tree, and she had turned to leave, loathe disturbing the boy and yet angered that he had taken her spot, ridiculous as it was.

It was then that she saw the red likes that seemed to almost weave, lines that fanned on either side of the boy—though it was hard to tell from behind him—and seemed to root straight to him. Cautiously, she stepped forward to examine it closer, at a loss for what it could be, and when she realized that it was not red dye, as her slow mind had first thought, but _blood_, she started, and instantly reached out to shake the boys shoulder.

As his obviously dead form moved, the lines that spread for his still-bleeding wrists broke, stirred by the slight movement. She felt perversely saddened for the loss of something that looked so pretty, and then suddenly came to her senses and stepped away from the body.

Gasping, her newly acquired common sense rerouting in her mind, she reached for her cell phone and quickly dialed one-one-nine—_oops, no, that wasn't right_—she thought to herself, cursing her stupidity and trembling fingers as she pressed the end button and tried again. Finally a voice, calm and soothing, spoke to her. She couldn't hear her own words, couldn't remember telling her mouth to open and close, but soon the voice was reassuring her, and there were sirens in the distance.

The sirens grew louder and louder until they reached her, and soon more voices were talking at her, more people were crowding. White, blue, and red swirled around her and she soon felt herself being helped into a police cruiser, which then took her home.

When she was safely in her own house, she immediately fell into bed—not even bothering to remove her clothes.

She fell asleep, trying to ignore the haunting sound—the echoing scream—that had seemed to follow her, coming alive when she had disturbed those beautiful red lines.


	3. Snape

He was angry. The term 'angry' was a poor supplement for the feeling coursing through his veins, but it would have to do. The stupid _boy_ had gone and offed himself, and for what? For whom? For _him_? He knew—_everyone_ knew; he wasn't worth that.

No matter the infatuation the boy had held for him, he could still not quite believed that he would go and cut his wrists because he had rejected him, because he had done what any sensible person would have done. Never mind that he might have felt something for him, never mind he hadn't _wanted_ to reject him; he merely did his duty.

And _now,_ what a mess they were in! Not only him, but all the others, ever single one. _He_ had gone and messed everything up, and now the only person to blame was himself.

When he had seen the news report, he had hardly believed it. He had to go, to seek out the body himself, and when he had seen it, he had gone into a rage; throwing things, breaking things, and causing great stress in the morgue.

When he had returned to his own home, he had broken more thing, thrown more objects, and snapped at more people; having a right tantrum, as…_someone_ had called it. Now he was pacing his study, brooding on the event that had caused disruption in his already unpredictable life.

His anger, which had been burning strong as he paced his small study, started to burn itself out. In its place oozed the cool, icy glacier melt of pain, of loss. He shoved at it, tried to get rid of it, as best he could, but it seeped into his core, spread throughout his body. He loathed admitting that he possessed a heart, but if he had, it would have surely been frozen. He continuously refused to admit that _he_ was the cause, but he couldn't even fool himself.

Finally he stopped. He had come to a…a sort of epiphany, though he would never admit to having one.

He would go on, he would continue to do his duty and follow through with the plan, but any sort of meaning that life had died, red on white, like the red petals of a dying rose upon the pure white of the powdered snow.


End file.
